Author's Thought;
Welcome to A Winter Tale.
For those joining for the first time — welcome. And for those who've been here from the beginning, I invite you to revisit Chapter One — now refined, deepened, and dusted with a little more winter wonder.
A Winter Tale was born from the idea that love isn't always born in warmth — sometimes, it sparks in the coldest, most unexpected places. I wanted to create a story that feels like a movie — one readers can see, hear, and feel. The biting sarcasm, the slow-burn attraction, the snowy isolation, and the laughter that keeps them sane — all of it mirrors how love so often finds us in our most inconvenient moments.
Cassandra and Julian aren't perfect. They're prideful, flawed, and deeply human. But through the chaos of their forced marriage, they discover that real love isn't soft or simple — it's messy, inconvenient, terrifying and absolutely worth it. This is a story of two people who thought they were signing a contract, but instead — they wrote their own destiny. Because sometimes, winter doesn't freeze hearts — it wakes them up. Please enjoy this book.
<<<<<<
The snowstorm began the same hour Cassandra Beaumont signed her life away. Wrapped in a crimson coat that screamed rebellion, she stood at the marble steps of the Ashford estate, watching her future disappear beneath the swirl of white. Inside, the grand ballroom glittered with chandeliers, champagne, and every powerful name in the country—all gathered to witness the marriage merger of the decade.
Her marriage. Her merger. Her mistake. At the altar stood Julian Ashford—billionaire heir, corporate legend, and living proof that arrogance could look devastatingly good in a tuxedo.
He glanced at her with calm, gray eyes that could freeze champagne. "You're late," he murmured.
"You're lucky I showed up," she muttered back. "I almost eloped with the flight attendant who offered me peanuts and emotional support."
A muscle twitched in his jaw, but his lips curved in a faint smirk. "He wouldn't survive you."
"Neither will you."
The officiant cleared his throat loudly. "Shall we begin?"
The ceremony unfolded like a board meeting disguised as a fairytale. The cathedral smelled of roses and old money. Cameras flashed, capturing smiles that weren't real. Their families beamed from the front row—Ashford and Beaumont, titans of industry, sealing their legacies through this perfectly packaged romance.
"Do you, Cassandra Beaumont, take this man, Julian Ashford, to be your lawfully wedded husband?"
Cassandra hesitated, pulse pounding in her ears. She looked at Julian—so still, so composed, as if he'd been carved from marble and mild disdain.
Her lips twitched. "Define lawfully."
A ripple of laughter spread through the guests—CEOs, politicians, and media moguls—all pretending this was a love story instead of a corporate contract wrapped in silk and champagne.
Julian didn't laugh. He tilted his head, steel-gray eyes glinting with restrained amusement. He leaned closer, voice low enough for only her to hear. "Say yes, Beaumont. It'll look bad on the stock charts if you run. And it's good for the shareholders."
Her lips curved. "You're lucky you're handsome. Otherwise, I'd have tackled you into a snowdrift."
"Promises, promises." His smirk deepened—equal parts charm and challenge. "You can still try later. Preferably when we're alone."
"Keep dreaming."
"Admit it—you pictured it."
"Only the part where you're freezing," she said sweetly. "Fine. I do."
Julian's I do came smooth and slow—like velvet over steel.
The officiant smiled. "Wonderful. The exchange of the family seals, please."
Two objects rested on the altar: the Ashford iron ring—a symbol of power and legacy—and the Beaumont silver key, an heirloom passed through generations. The key represented the deed to the Beaumont estate, the missing piece Julian's company needed for their northern expansion. It was the foundation of everything.
Cassandra reached for it—and froze. The key was gone. Her stomach dropped. The recess where it should've been was empty.
"Uh," she whispered, keeping her bridal smile plastered on for the cameras. "Julian? Slight problem."
He turned his head slightly. "What now?"
"The key," she hissed through clenched teeth. "It's missing."
For the first time that day, Julian's composure cracked. His gaze snapped to the altar—sharp and deadly. "Missing?"
"Gone," she whispered, still smiling for the guests. "As in—poof. Not here."
His fingers tightened around the ring box. "Tell me you didn't lose a multi-million-dollar heirloom ten minutes before it was supposed to secure our merger."
"Excuse me?" she hissed back. "You think I'd sabotage my own wedding? Maybe one of your perfect security guards stole it."
"Beaumont, if this is one of your tantrums—"
"If this is one of your threats—"
The officiant cleared his throat nervously. Guests whispered. Cameras zoomed.
Julian leaned closer, his breath cool against her ear. "We finish this ceremony. You smile. Then we find that key. Until then—" he squeezed her hand just tightly enough to make her heart skip. "You'll act like the happiest bride alive. If you're behind this—"
She cut him off with a sweet smile. "Oh, please. If I wanted to sabotage you, I'd have done it with style."
He smiled back, slow and dangerous. "You already have."
Cassandra smiled dazzlingly for the cameras, even as she whispered, "You're insufferable."
"And you're beautiful when you're angry," he replied.
"But if I'm going down, Julian," she whispered, "I'm taking your reputation for being a cold, unfeeling robot with me."
His grin widened—predatory, confident, devastatingly attractive. "Game on."
The officiant cleared his throat, forcing the rest of the vows through before anything else could implode. Rings were exchanged, champagne popped, and by the time the storm outside swelled into a full blizzard, Cassandra Beaumont had officially become Mrs. Julian Ashford. A wife. A partner. A potential suspect.
And with that, Julian Ashford slipped the ring onto Cassandra Beaumont's finger—his touch cool, his gaze unreadable—the ceremony ended not with a kiss, but with a declaration neither of them spoke aloud: Their vows were sealed. Their merger was complete. And a war neither of them had meant to start had just begun.
<<<<<<<
Later That Night — The Ashford Estate.
The storm followed them home. Snow hammered against the glass as Cassandra stepped inside the grand Ashford estate for the first time as Mrs. Julian Ashford. The mansion was breathtaking—tall ceilings, roaring fireplaces, and portraits that seemed to watch her every move.
"Welcome home," Julian said dryly, tossing his gloves onto a table. "Try not to burn it down."
"I'm not making promises I can't keep," she replied, brushing snow from her coat.
He smirked. "You're impossible."
"And you're still talking, so who's really losing?"
"This is ridiculous," Cassandra muttered under her breath, eyeing the towering mansion. "You don't even like me."
"I don't even know you," Julian replied smoothly. "Which is frankly an advantage in this situation."
Julian appeared beside her, annoyingly calm despite the storm. "If you start seeing ghosts, try not to sign another contract with them."
She shot him a glare. "Funny."
"I'm trying. You're not very easy to please, Mrs. Ashford."
"Good. Keeps men like you humble."
He chuckled—low, unexpected. The sound startled her. "Careful, Mrs. Ashford. You almost sounded like you like me."
"In your dreams."
"Every night," he murmured, walking past her.
Her heart betrayed her with a tiny skip. "You're insufferable."
"Yet you married me."
"Under protest."
"Under contract," he corrected, glancing over his shoulder. "Same thing."
She was about to retort when the lights flickered once, twice—then went out completely. What neither of them knew was that the winter storm wasn't the only thing brewing. Someone didn't want this alliance to happen. And that someone was already inside the house.
"I'm not sleeping in the same room," she warned as they stepped deeper into the mansion.
Julian raised an eyebrow. "Of course not. That would imply we're getting along."
The silence that followed was deep and eerie. The only sound was the wind howling through the chimneys.
"Oh, perfect," Cassandra muttered. "Nothing says romance like a blackout in a possibly haunted mansion."
Julian's calm voice cut through the dark. "Relax. The generator will kick in."
"I'd believe you if I didn't already think this house wanted to kill me."
"That's just the ambiance."
"Unless the ghost of your ancestors cut the power to punish us for fake affection."
Julian turned to her, one brow raised. "We'll be snowed in until morning. Try not to start a civil war in the meantime."
"Oh, I plan to. Just as soon as I find out where my missing key went."
He shot her a flat look. "You're very dramatic."
"It's called personality."
Cassandra blindly reached for the stair rail and nearly grabbed Julian's hand instead. She recoiled like she'd touched fire. He didn't comment, but she swore she saw the corner of his mouth twitch. A beam of light appeared—Julian, holding a flashlight. His face glowed in the pale yellow light, sharp and unreadable.
"Follow me," he said. "Try not to trip. The staircase has a personality. It likes to test the weak."
"Sounds like you. But I'd rather stay here and freeze."
"You're free to try. But I'm told hypothermia ruins complexions."
"Lead the way, Mr. Charm."
"Your room's this way," he said, stopping before a door at the far end of the hall.
She crossed her arms. "You mean our room."
He smirked. "I'm not that optimistic."
She rolled her eyes. "Good. I like my space."
They climbed the staircase, shadows flickering along the walls. When they reached the guest wing, Julian opened a door. The room inside was warm, a fire already burning in the hearth. A tray of tea sat neatly on the table.
"I didn't ask for tea," Cassandra said.
"No one said you did."
Julian's brow furrowed as he looked around the room.
"Was anyone supposed to be here before us?" she asked.
He shook his head. "Just the caretaker and Elise, the housekeeper. But they're both gone."
"What do you mean?"
"The caretaker's away for the weekend," he said slowly. "And Elise never stays past sunset."
Cassandra frowned. "Then who lit the fire?"
The question hung in the air as the flames crackled softly—too fresh, too recent.
The air between them shifted. They both fell silent. The fire crackled again. Then—a soft click echoed from the hallway. They both froze.
Cassandra stiffened. "What was that?"
Julian moved toward the sound, every movement calm but alert. "Probably the wind."
Cassandra folded her arms. "Right," she said. "It's always the wind. Because the wind makes door sounds now."
He glanced over his shoulder, smirk tugging at his lips. "If I scream, you inherit the family fortune."
"Not unless we sign the prenup first," she shot back.
He laughed under his breath—low and warm and annoyingly attractive. He ignored her, stepping into the hallway. "Stay here."
"Absolutely not." She followed close behind. "If someone's about to kill you, I want front-row seats."
He shot her a dry look. "Romantic."
"I'm a realist."
They moved down the corridor, the old house creaking around them. Every sound felt louder in the silence. Then—there it was again. A soft click. A faint whisper. The hallway stretched ahead, lit only by the dying glow of the fire. Somewhere down the hall, a shadow slipped past—too quick, too quiet to be the wind.
Cassandra's pulse spiked. "Julian…"
He turned slightly. "I hear it. Stay behind me."
They reached the end of the hall. Then—a door creaked open. And somewhere deep in the house, a woman's voice whispered just loud enough for them to hear:
"The winter always takes what doesn't belong."
Cassandra's heart slammed against her ribs. Julian's hand found hers—firm, steady, protective. For once, neither of them had a comeback. They stood there in the dark, newly bound by law, secrets, and something that felt dangerously like fate.
Because beneath the snow and silk, this was no longer just a merger—it was a game.
And in the Ashford estate, every game came with a price. Somewhere in the shadows of that grand house, their marriage—fake or not—had just become dangerously real.